


remember me (when i'm reborn)

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, ambiguous afterlife, fear of death representing itself as hallucinations, or are they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23262742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: The barn door is closed, but there’s a sliver of light where the two wings don’t quite line up. John stares at it now, to catch a glimpse of the thing that will kill him.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	remember me (when i'm reborn)

**Author's Note:**

> I finally caved and wrote something about my man, my dude, John Marston. Title of the fic is taken from Hozier's _Shrike_ (but you probably knew that).

The barn door is closed, but there’s a sliver of light where the two wings don’t quite line up. John stares at it now, to catch a glimpse of the thing that will kill him. He’s luckier than many in that regard.

Arthur probably would have fixed that barn door years ago.

The thought of Arthur Morgan – how long dead now, ten years? – comes naturally to him. It seems appropriate. He can’t think of Abigail. He can’t think of Jack. He has to banish the thought of them from his mind if he wants to face this. But Arthur, Arthur is safe. Thinking of Arthur, maybe he’ll be able to do this without feeling he’s just proving Dutch right.

He doesn’t want to think of Dutch Van Der Linde. Not of the man he was fifteen, twenty years ago, the larger-than-life vision of a man, nor of the man he’d become: delusional and angry and vindictive. John feels a stab of envy that Dutch got to die on his own terms. It’s too dignified. It’s unfair, seeing how John will be denied that privilege.

Him and Arthur both it seems. Brothers, in the end.

It’s funny how nobody has spoken about Arthur. For a while after his death, the pain was so fresh that they all tip-toed around the mention of him, sentences aborted, stories left unfinished. Eventually, it became habit. But these last months, chasing down Javier and Bill and Dutch – none of them mentioned Arthur. It’s as if they’re all aware just how badly they failed him. How much they don’t deserve to speak his name.

He’s stalling. A bad habit, John knows. Arthur would have squared his shoulders, shrugged, and faced death head-on. So that’s what John Marston does.

He pushes open the barn door. Maybe he’ll see his brother in hell.

There’s more people out here than he realized. It’s as if a last bit of hope dies inside of him at that – the hope of a young boy who pulled his head out of a noose after it had already tightened around his neck, the lucky little brother of a man who always had his back and two fathers who would stop at nothing to rain hell down on whoever dared to lay a finger on him.

This is really it. He will not see Jack or Abigail again. John Marston, last surviving member of the Van Der Linde gang, has reached the end of his trail.

It’s easy letting go after that. Now he knows how Arthur felt.

“You’ve always been melodramatic and a dumbass, Marston.”

He hears the voice, clear as day, though seconds before he could have sworn he didn’t remember what Arthur sounded like. His heart tightens painfully.

“You could probably take them all, huh?” John closes eyes as he responds, accepts the risk that the agents might just decide to take him out now. “Crackshot that you are. You’d do it just to annoy me.”

No answer. He opens his eyes again.

There is fear in the eyes of the people facing him. It’s the fear of knowing they’ll take him, but he’ll take a few of them with him. He breathes in and breathes out, preparing to draw.

“Good luck, kid.”

He gets in three shots before the first bullet strikes him. Two more before the second. All of them strike true. After the third bullet rips a hole in his stomach that burns like fire, his accuracy declines.

The world goes black for a while.

When it comes back, the agents are gone. There’s no blood, no sign of them – just one lone figure standing on the plain, collar turned up and a hat pulled deep in his face. He turns towards John with a shit-eating grin.

“Took you long enough,” Arthur says.

“Asshole,” John responds, fondly.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on tumblr at [veganthranduil](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/), where I am yelling at clouds and Dutch Van Der Linde. 
> 
> Please do consider leaving a comment. I live on validation.


End file.
